Shut Up & Drive
by APerfectGrace
Summary: Nineteen-year-old university student Dean comes up with a rather unique nickname for his biker friend Castiel. Teenage AU.


Based on a genuine surname I came across when serving at work last week.

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><p>"Jesus <em>Christ,<em> Cas, will you slow _down?_"

Rather than a decrease of speed, Dean was answered instead with a burst of musical laughter as Castiel gunned it, the motorcycle suddenly jerking forward faster and nearly knocking him clean off the seat thanks to the added acceleration.

He yelped in exasperation, his arms tightening around the leather-clad middle of his friend, and he briefly let go to adjust his glasses, which were slowly slipping down his freckled nose against the wind beating around his face. His backpack rattled violently against the curve of his back as the wind whipped around him. He let out a small wheeze and was instantly thankful that he slipped his inhaler from his bag into the pocket of his jeans. He might need it soon.

"CAAAAS!"

A throaty laugh. "What's wrong, Dean? Not into Need For Speed?"

Shaking hands dug into the lapels of Castiel's jacket, betraying his anxiousness. "Not when your Need For Speed is more like Crazy Taxi!"

Dean could practically feel the sarcastic roll of his friend's eyes. "You're _supposed _to speed in Crazy Taxi, moron."

He buried his face against the reassuring warmth of Castiel's back. He knew deep down that he would never intentionally hurt him, but that didn't stop the constricting fear wrap tightly around his lungs.

"Cas! Slow _down!_"

"Yeah, yeah, calm down, Specs," Castiel conceded, gradually knocking back the speed until he felt Dean physically relax. "Better?"

"What, now that you're going the speed limit? Oh yeah, tons better, thanks."

He rolled his eyes as he signalled left. "You're such a geek."

"Better an alive geek than a dead one! I'm serious, Cas, I'm not catching a lift with you next time if you don't bring helmets. We could have been killed!"

"Keep your underwear on, Hermione. We're almost at yours anyway."

"I'm not Hermione!" he shot back in outrage as they rounded the corner onto the end of his street.

Castiel grinned despite himself. "Hmm, huge sweater, hair all over the place, stupid backpack… You're right. You're definitely a Weasley."

"OI!" Dean yelled, nearly blowing his ear off. "First of all, there is nothing wrong with being a Weasley! They're brave and loyal and without them, Harry Potter would have sucked! And secondly:_ my backpack is not stupid!_"

They pulled up outside of Dean's house; Castiel shifted into park and switched off the engine. For a few moments, they busied themselves with dismounted the motorcycle.

"Dean, your backpack is the shape of a TARDIS," he deadpanned.

"And?"

"You have a Doctor Who backpack."

"So?"

"You're _nineteen_."

"Yeah, well you're stupid," he blustered, his cheeks tinging pink.

"Good one," Castiel replied, raising an eyebrow.

A dark flush crept underneath the collar of Dean's sweater. "Are you coming in or what?"

"Lead the way, Specs."

"Why do you do it?"

"Excuse me?"

Castiel was sprawled on Dean's bed while his friend sat cross-legged against the foot of the bed, a Nintendo 64 controller in his hand and box of Hawaiian pizza by his thigh.

"Why do you speed?"

Castiel sighed, memories of Dean's earlier anxiety twanging guiltily in his chest. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I don't need a lecture–"

"No," Dean broke in, hitting a button hard on the controller. "I'm actually asking. I'm curious."

"Oh." He stared down at the back of his head for a moment, before answering, "You've never asked me before."

A small shrug. "Never wanted to know until now."

Castiel contemplated the question while reaching down over his friend's shoulder, and Dean caught a glimpse of the inky feather tattoo on his wrist before a slice of pizza disappeared from the open box. The sound of chewing filled the air, interspersed with the tinkling music from the game he was playing.

"I like the liberation," Castiel said slowly, around a mouthful of ham and pineapple.

"You're gonna have to elaborate," Dean said, his tongue poking out in concentration.

"I don't do it because I'm trying to kill myself or because I'm trying to be a dick to you–"

"You do that without trying," he responded with eyes glued to the screen, humour lacing his tone.

"Yes, thank you, point taken," Castiel bit back sardonically. "My point is I do it because when I do it I feel like I can fly."

At this, Dean paused the game, and looked over his shoulder at his friend. "Really?"

"Yeah." He shrugged, biting the crust of his pizza. "Makes me feel like I have wings, like if I go fast enough I can just take off."

"Wow," Dean breathed, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"It's stupid, I know," he responded quickly, his cheeks colouring red.

"No, no, it's just… I never knew that."

"Well, now you do."

Dean set the controller down and picked up a slice of pizza. "Of course, just because you wanna fly, doesn't mean that I want to."

Castiel rolled his eyes and rolled onto his back. "Alright. Chicken."

"I'm not a chicken!" came the mumbled reply. "I just like my feet on the ground."

"Harry Potter never kept his feet on the ground," Castiel pointed out, staring at the Doctor Who poster mounted above Dean's headboard.

"That's because Harry was the Gryffindor seeker! He played Quidditch! I don't play Quidditch."

"That's because it's not real," he answered pointedly, hands crossing behind his head.

"Don't be ridiculous," Dean said airily. "You just need the right implementation."

"We're not having this conversation again, Specs," he intoned dully, refusing to delve into yet _another_ of his friend's intense debates on how to make Quidditch a real thing. Dean seriously needed to tone down on the Harry Potter, before he started drawing lightning bolts on his forehead and attacking people with home-made wands.

"I keep telling you, you would feel differently if you were on a broomstick."

"I can assure you, I would not."

"Just picture it! You with your Nimbus Two Thousand–"

"_Excuse me_," he broke in indignantly, rolling back onto his stomach to face him down. "I would _quite clearly_ own a Firebolt. Get it right."

"Soooorrrryyy," Dean held his hands up in mock-defence. "And you tell me you don't like Harry Potter."

"I never said that. I just said that there are better ways of spending my time."

"Blasphemer," Dean reprimanded him, peering at him through the thick lenses of his glasses. "Anyway, just picture you and your Firebolt, zooming in the air, instead of that death trap bike of yours."

Castiel threw the remaining piece of crust at his head, making him yell in outrage.

"Well it's true! You'd be much better off on a broomstick. It's cleaner for the environment, easier to maintain, less money–"

"They don't fly in real life, you ignoramus!"

"Shut up! I'm talking hypothetically!"

Castiel remained silent, rubbing his lips together in that way Dean knew meant that he was severely judging him right now. _Judge away, blasphemer._

"Less money, easier to store, and you can name it!"

"I can name my bike too," he highlighted, gesturing at him.

"Something cool," Dean went on, ignoring him and waving his hands in the air. "Something unique, not too long, something that rolls off the tongue, something that people would hear and say 'yeah, that's Cas's Firebolt'."

"Cas's Firebolt," Castiel found himself repeating. Lord, the conversations he had with this boy were _ridiculous_.

Dean suddenly snapped his fingers, and leant his head back to look up at his friend who was looking down at him from the edge of his bed. "Casbolt."

Castiel raised an eyebrow excruciatingly slow. "Excuse me?"

"_Casbolt._ Cas's Firebolt. Casbolt!"

"Okay, that's enough pizza for you," he said, with a twinge of concern.

"That's your new nickname," Dean said excitedly. "Casbolt! 'Cause you wanna fly and 'cause Harry Potter is awesome!"

"You are so _weird_," Castiel groaned, rubbing his forehead and rolling onto his back again.


End file.
